The Gold of Thrace

by Aileen G. Baron

She selected a pale green knitted dress to wear. In Turkey it looked elegant when she wore it with the amber necklace. Here it looked shoddy and second-rate.

  She shrugged, flung the strap of her clumsy leather purse over her shoulder, and went down to the concierge desk in the lobby. She asked for a city map, and asked the concierge to show her the main shopping street.

  Another patronizing smile, this time from the concierge. The concierge opened the map and began to trace on it with a pen. “Here, between Barfüsserplatz and Marktplatz, you will find everything you need.” She clicked the pen and looked Tamar over. “Shall I call you a cab?”

  “It doesn’t look as if it’s that far. I’ll walk.”

  The concierge looked down at Tamar’s sandals and smiled again. “The taxi is complimentary.”

  “I want to get to know Basel.”

  “Suit yourself. Enjoy the lovely day.” The concierge picked up the pen again poised it over the map. “When you leave the hotel, turn left, then right on this street.” She made a mark on the map. “Then straight on. You can’t miss the center of town.”

  Tamar wandered for the better part of half an hour, viewing the burghers of Basel with their dark suits and briefcases, and the grim-faced housewives wearing print dresses and colored shoes and waiting patiently at street corners for traffic lights to change.

  No one smiled.

  It’s as though they have constipated souls, she thought, and went back to deciding what she had to buy. She had two credit cards, one for the hotel, one for clothes and other expenses. Shoes, she thought, shoes that match each outfit, like the ladies of Basel.

  She passed a Bank Suisse and got two hundred dollars’ worth of Swiss francs from the ATM machine. She looked up at the street sign and found herself at the corner of Aeschenvorstadt and Aeschenplatz. It can’t be too far, she thought. She oriented herself on the map and found Barfüsserplatz.

  She walked along Freiestrasse, looking in shop windows for appropriate clothes, taking short forays into side streets. She stopped outside a quiet shop with one dark outfit on a form in the window and peered inside. She saw a linen dress on a rack in the center of the shop, the kind of dress she needed, decided to look further, and continued on toward Marktplatz.

  The Town Square, lined by corbelled houses, lay in the shadow of the Rathaus, the town hall, a red stone building adorned with frescoes and fluttering banners and topped by a multi-colored roof. Tamar navigated through a barricade of parked cars that edged the market in the center of the square.

  She strolled through a cacophony of stalls that sold flowers, fruits, vegetables, bread, cheese, apples the color of the Rathaus, all under a sea of market umbrellas—white, yellow, fringed, scalloped. Pigeons cooed and bustled on the cobblestones below, pecking at bits of debris that had fluttered to the ground and lodged in little wet gutters between the stones.

  She stopped at a fruit stand, drawn by the luscious scent of tiny wild strawberries, red and bright as the Rathaus.

  “Picked fresh from the mountains,” a woman in an apron who stood behind the table told Tamar in English.

  In front was an array of yellow peaches with blushing cheeks, the tantalizing aroma of their sweet-acid tang wafting on the air.

  “You want to buy?” asked the woman.

  Tamar nodded and reached for a peach with a luscious crimson glow. Before she could, the woman placed it on the balance pan with two others, fiddled with brass weights on the platform of the scale until it was level, and shoveled the peaches into a paper sack.

  Tamar made her way back to the shop where she had seen the dress. A bell attached to the top of the entrance tinkled when she opened it. The faint odor of a meal, of cooking meat, drifted from somewhere in the rear of the shop.

  A woman in a dark blue smock came through the heavy drape that hung over the entrance to the back of the shop. She was still chewing. She swallowed, wiped her mouth with a napkin and put it in the pocket of her smock.

  “I can help you?”

  “I would like to see a dress.”

  The woman peered at Tamar and nodded her head. She took the napkin from her pocket and wiped at her mouth again. “You would like to see a dress?”

  By the time Tamar left, she had bought three dresses. The last was a delicate aquamarine silk. “Just the color of your eyes,” the saleswoman had said. “You have very good taste.”

  And now for shoes, Tamar decided. Shoe stores lined Freiestrasse, one after the other, all with Bally shoes. She found three pair to match the dresses, bought stockings, and a white straw purse with embroidered flowers.

  Back at the Euler, Tamar assessed the spoils of her morning foray, hung the clothes in the closet, and lined up the shoes on the closet floor.

  Shopping always tired her. She sat at the desk, stared at the drapes marching across the window in measured folds, wondering what she was doing here, how she could find the mosaic in the strangeness of Basel, and then roused herself to dress in her new finery and assail the lobby.

  The manager stood near the revolving door talking to a stout matron when Tamar came around the corner from the elevator.

  He raised his eyebrow in greeting, bowed to the stout lady and approached Tamar with a welcoming smile.

  “Everything is to your satisfaction?” He reached out to shake her hand. “Charles Keller. Welcome to the Euler,” he said with a vigorous shake of her hand.

  He glanced toward the clock above the registration desk. “Cocktail time. Will you be my guest?” he asked and gestured in the direction of the bar.

  They sat in low chairs at a black glass table in the dim light of the bar. Snatches of German words escaped from the murmur of voices of a man and woman at the far end of the room, soft piano music washed over the room from hidden speakers in the background. Tamar ordered a sherry.

  A lighted glass showcase, a vitrine, behind the bar held some remarkable pieces of Greek pottery.

  “The owner of the Euler is a collector?” Tamar asked.

  “I am the owner.” He gave Tamar a slight nod of the head. “And the manager. And a collector.”

  “The pieces in the vitrine are real?”

  “Real pottery, not real antiquities. Just very good copies. I once displayed real pieces here, but now in a public place, even here at the Euler….” He held out his hands, palms up and shrugged, “It is not a very good idea.”

  “But you collect?”

  “Everyone in Basel is a bit of a collector. Here in Basel, we have a fine Antikenmuseum. It inspires people to collect.”

  “There must be a number of good antiquities dealers in Basel.”

  “Of course. There is a fancy shop for tourists near the Art Museum. There is a famous art dealer on Engelstrasse. He acquired most of the collection for Dumbarton Oaks, specializes in Turkish material. He’s retired now, writing a corpus of ancient Byzantine coins. You can only see him by appointment.” He contemplated the vitrine with the pottery for a moment. “The best one,” he said, “the most reliable dealer with the best pieces, is Gilberto Dela Barcolo. He’s on Hohenstrasse, in one of the patrician houses off Engelgasse south of Saint Alban district.”

  He looked over Tamar’s shoulder as someone approached the table and he rose to hold out his hand in greeting.

  She turned to see a bronzed, compact man with gray smoky eyes.

  “Ah. Enzio,” the manager said. “Good to see you back.” He turned to Tamar and indicated the man who had just joined them. “Enzio Egidio.”

  Enzio acknowledged the introduction with a slight bow. “At your service. And your name?”

  “Tamar Saticoy.”

  “American?”

  “From California.”

  Someone in the lobby caught Keller’s eye. “You will excuse me?” he said, and left them in the bar.

  “You want a Campari?” Enzio asked Tamar. His hands were perched on the back of her chair.

  “No, I don’t.”

&n
bsp; “You flew ten thousand miles and clear across the sea. You need something to soothe the aches and pains of outrageous fortune,” he said, and sat down.

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “I quote from Guglielmo Shakespeare, the famous Italian poet and playwright,” he said.

  “You’re Italian?”

  “From Napoli.”

  A waiter in black pants and a white shirt came to their table and stood next to Enzio with a pencil poised over a pad. “Prego?”

  Tamar ordered a bottle of Evian water.

  “And a Campari for me.”

  Tamar made a face. “Tastes medicinal.”

  “I need it for your sake. You must be exhausted.”

  “How sympathetic.”

  “Simpatico is the word.”

  “And brash.”

  “That too.”

  He was trying to be bright and witty, and not quite making it. Tamar felt embarrassed for him. She wanted to say, relax, be yourself, but contemplated him instead in comfortable silence.

  He reached into his pocket and took out a packet of American cigarettes, Marlboros, and offered her one. She shook her head.

  “No vices at all?” he asked and fiddled with the cigarette.

  The waiter brought their drinks, set the water bottle and a glass in front of Tamar and poured some water into it.

  “What are you doing in Basel?” Enzio asked.

  Tamar sipped from her glass. “I came for the waters.” She put down the glass and made a circle with her fingers with the drops of water on the table. “I collect antiquities. I came to shop.”

  “That’s a rich man’s game.” He seemed more at ease now, and leaned back in his chair. “You’re not rich.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “You can always tell by the shoes.”

  She moved her feet farther under the table.

  “You’re wearing Ballys bought locally, not the kind for export.”

  “I’m buying antiquities for my museum.”

  “You’re a curator?”

  “A university professor. Archaeologist.”

  He looked skeptical. “Archaeologists don’t buy antiquities. I heard that it’s against their principles.”

  “Usually. We had a windfall, a donor who gave us money to start a museum, and he wants it to open with some major pieces.”

  “All with the proper provenance, of course.”

  Tamar waved the word away with her hand. “Provenance is an art historian’s term.”

  “And you don’t approve of art historians?”

  “They only care about artifacts as objets d’arte, all out of context, all without meaning. As far as they are concerned, authentication comes from a list of previous owners—provenance.”

  “And how do you decide about authenticity?”

  “From provenience, from the find spot, the site and the location within the site. I want to know what place the artifact had in the life of those who used it, who touched it, who saw it. I want to feel the same awe that they felt when they held it.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “I told you, for the museum. You seem to know something about the antiquities trade. You’re a collector?”

  “Not exactly. Sometimes.”

  “You don’t look very rich either.”

  He lifted his foot. “Brunos,” he said with a flourish toward his shoe.

  “Who’s Bruno? An antiquities dealer?”

  “A shoe manufacturer. You never heard of Bruno Magli?”

  “I’m looking for antiquities, not shoes. I don’t know where to start.” She waited for him to make a suggestion. “You know any antiquities dealers?” she finally asked.

  “Try Gilberto Dela Barcolo. Ask anyone about him. He’s the prince of dealers, the Duveen of the antiquities trade.”

  “Duveen was a bit of a scoundrel.”

  Enzio took a sip of his Campari and made a face. “Exactly,” he said.

  “Everything from this Dela Barcolo has provenience?”

  “Provenance. If it doesn’t have one, he’ll get one for you.”

  She looked down at his shoes. “He wears Brunos?”

  He nodded.

  Gilberto Dela Barcolo it is, Tamar decided. I’ll try there in the morning.

  She took a sip of water. “Who are you?” she asked him. “Besides Enzio from Napoli who wears the right kind of shoes.”

  “A man with proper provenance.” He contemplated his foot and moved it from side to side. “I have to visit Gilberto tomorrow. I can take you there, if you want to come along.”

  She hesitated, then decided that she would rather go on her own. She reached for the water bottle to take up to her room. “I have to go now.”

  He stood up when she did and threw twenty francs on the table. “Tomorrow, here, at eleven?”

  “Don’t wait,” she said.

  Chapter Ten

  Basel, Switzerland, August 10, 1990

  At ten thirty in the morning, Tamar took a cab to Gilberto Dela Barcolo’s house in the St. Alban’s district. Herr Keller, the manager at the Euler, had given her the address and called for an appointment.

  “It’s his home,” Herr Keller told her. “Full of beautiful antiquities. He loves beautiful things, lives with them, sits back and admires them. You’ll see.”

  “Hohenstrasse Sieben,” she told the taxi driver in her best German and leaned back in the seat.

  “Hohnstrosse Siebe,” the driver corrected her in Basler Schwyzertuesch. He nodded to himself and then nodded to her in the rear view mirror before he started the meter and drove off.

  Hohenstrasse was a narrow, quiet street crammed with staid cars, mostly gray Mercedes, and lined with upscale nineteenth century townhouses. The taxi stopped before the largest of these, a three story stone house behind an elaborate wrought iron gate.

  The driver printed a chit from the meter, handed it to her, and grunted. She counted out the fare and tip.

  “Merci viel mals,” the driver said in the local patois, and Tamar smiled at the mixture of French and German.

  She stood in the street for a moment, then opened the gate that went along the path between low rose hedges. Halfway up the walk, she stopped. Her heart thumped and her hands grew clammy, with a chill of trepidation, beset with worry about meeting a stranger, about finding the mosaic.

  She took a deep breath and continued up the walk, up the steps to the door, and rang the bell. She waited and peered through the beveled glass into a short vestibule with five marble steps covered by a red carpet anchored with brass rods. All seemed silent inside the house.

  A second pair of double doors stood closed at the top of the stairs. She pressed the bell again and heard the echo of a harsh ring reverberate in the foyer beyond.

  A man wearing a dark turtleneck sweater and fine Italian shoes opened both doors at the top of the stairs with a flamboyant gesture. He was strikingly handsome, with liquid brown eyes caught in thought and dark hair tumbling onto his forehead. He frowned, holding a finger to his lips, and ducked his head to see who rang the bell. When he saw Tamar waiting, he came striding down the red carpet with easy grace.

  He opened the door with a flourish and held out his hand. “Gilberto Dela Barcolo. Sorry you had to wait, Miss Saticoy. The housekeeper seems to have gone off somewhere.”

  He waved her in with a slight bow. “You are Miss Saticoy, aren’t you?”

  His hair had a touch of gray at the temples, just enough to make him distinguished.

  He reached for her hand and gave it an air kiss. “Please to come in.”

  Everything about him was suave and sleek and charming, even his voice, so mellifluous and resonant with a faint Italian accent.

  They climbed the stairs into a grand foyer. A domed skylight high above a patterned mosaic in the center of the floor immersed it in a luminous twilight. At the far wall, a staircase led up to a second floor ga
llery, and then a third. A fine antique Oriental rug, the colors muted by time, hung on the wall behind the landing. The far corner of the gallery held a desk and another glass showcase.

  Dela Barcolo made a casual gesture in the direction of the carpet. “A Shah Abbas,” he said with a modest smile.

  He climbed the stairs to the landing, quiet elegance permeating every move, and stood in front of the carpet, waiting for her to follow.

  He turned back the corner of the carpet to show the fine quality of the stitches. “You know about Shah Abbas,” he said. “Shah Abbas the Great. He ruled Persia in the sixteenth century and was renowned for his conquests, his cruelty, and the magnificence of his court, the buildings he erected, and the beauty of their furnishings. Especially the carpets.”

  “Very nice,” Tamar said.

  “But you want something older, something ancient, something wrapped in the romance of a more distant past,” he said and they continued up the stairs to the gallery.

  A marquetry desk and chair and the head and shoulders of a Kore, larger than life, on a high black acrylic plinth were in the far corner near the railing of the gallery.

  The nose and right ear had been repaired, conservator style, with plaster painted the same gray color as the stone.

  A vitrine stood against the back wall.

  As they walked toward it, the pressure of their steps along the gallery seemed to rock the Kore on the plinth. Tamar reached up to steady it.

  “Careful,” Dela Barcolo said. “It isn’t permanently installed. For that we have to drill a hole. It’s a Kore—the Maiden, Persephone, Queen of the Underworld. Her statue, garlanded with flowers during the celebration of the Elysian Mysteries, stood in a temple dedicated to the Kore and her mother Demeter. Perhaps you’re interested?”

  Tamar shook her head. “Not what I was looking for.”

  “No?” Dela Barcolo crossed over to the vitrine and reached inside. “I have something special,” he said. “A Kybele.”

  “A Kybele?”

  Like the one stolen from Ephesus?

  He brought out a ceramic figurine of a Roman matron wearing a chiton and himation and enthroned on a wheeled chariot. She wore the attributes of Kybele, a polis headdress and lions on either side of the throne.